


Pretty When You're Mine

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-12
Updated: 2008-03-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title: Pretty When You’re Mine (Title inspired by “Pretty When You Cry” by Vast)<br/>Fandom: Torchwood – RP, AU (very, very, VERY AU. Here’s canon over here, on Earth all snug in their underground lair with the Weevils; here’s our AU, CLEAR over on the other side of the universe, waving at its source material fondly. Our Jack isn’t immortal *heh. Yet*or a former Time Agent and Ianto’s never kept a Cyberwoman in the basement and did I mention the organization’s based in San Francisco, not Cardiff and they don’t hunt aliens so much as things that go bump in the night? Yeah, smidge AU). But the AU aspect only pops up in one teeny tiny place in this one. One line, really.<br/>Pairing: Jack/Ianto <br/>Rating: The closest thing you’ll ever get to NC-17 at my hands. Adult, for certain. Also the closest you’ll ever get to PWP from me.<br/>Word count: 655<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them. Won’t be my fault if they’re broken, though. <br/>Warnings: Past this point, there be smut. Smut of the man-on-man nature (as if the pairing wasn’t your first clue there). But keep in mind, it’s my smut, so it’s the closest thing to well-mannered and polite as smut can get. Because there really, truly is an 80-year-old school marm in my head that smacks my knuckles if my thoughts get too dirty.<br/>Summary: He tastes of whiskey and dark coffee and bitter need...</p>
    </blockquote>





	Pretty When You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Pretty When You’re Mine (Title inspired by “Pretty When You Cry” by Vast)  
> Fandom: Torchwood – RP, AU (very, very, VERY AU. Here’s canon over here, on Earth all snug in their underground lair with the Weevils; here’s our AU, CLEAR over on the other side of the universe, waving at its source material fondly. Our Jack isn’t immortal *heh. Yet*or a former Time Agent and Ianto’s never kept a Cyberwoman in the basement and did I mention the organization’s based in San Francisco, not Cardiff and they don’t hunt aliens so much as things that go bump in the night? Yeah, smidge AU). But the AU aspect only pops up in one teeny tiny place in this one. One line, really.  
> Pairing: Jack/Ianto   
> Rating: The closest thing you’ll ever get to NC-17 at my hands. Adult, for certain. Also the closest you’ll ever get to PWP from me.  
> Word count: 655  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them. Won’t be my fault if they’re broken, though.   
> Warnings: Past this point, there be smut. Smut of the man-on-man nature (as if the pairing wasn’t your first clue there). But keep in mind, it’s my smut, so it’s the closest thing to well-mannered and polite as smut can get. Because there really, truly is an 80-year-old school marm in my head that smacks my knuckles if my thoughts get too dirty.  
> Summary: He tastes of whiskey and dark coffee and bitter need...

He tastes of whiskey and dark coffee and bitter need. As his fingers dig into my shoulders and his hips grind against mine, I can already smell the regret he’ll wrap himself in tomorrow. He’ll wake up with the taste of me still on his tongue, my fingerprints embedded into his hips as blatant black and blue reminders, and he’ll hate me for it.

And tonight, I don’t care.

-

His skin is soft and pale against my dark sheets; it turns deliciously pink when he catches me staring at him as I shuck off the rest of my clothes. The marks my teeth left on his shoulder are vivid and obscene against the softly shadowed pale.

I can count the frantic beats of his pulse, read the staccato code of his want and reservation in every minute twitch of his length. I wonder if he’ll taste half as good as he looks. The thought barely crosses my mind and a sudden, desperate need washes over me. He hardly has time to register the dip of the mattress or the warmth of an exhale against his hip; the rough drag of my tongue over hard and pulsing skin. 

I try not to flinch when he calls out her name as he comes.

-

‘Please.’ The word is slurred more by need than drink and burns through my blood quicker and hotter than the whisky ever could. He whimpers his one-word mantra into the pillow as I drive him slowly mad. His eyes are dark and hazy when he raises his head, dilated by sex and hunger and confusion and recrimination. He’ll hate himself in the morning, but tonight he needs this. Needs the pleasure and the pain and the regret and that one brief moment where he can forget. Needs me. ‘Please, Jack Please...’

I tell myself, when I’m buried deep and panting for control, that I don’t need any of it. That I don’t need my kiss on his lips, my name on his tongue. That I haven’t tried to find solace in any willing body I can find; that I’m not begging for it to be on the other side of his sharp cries and breathless moans and the white hot rush of release. 

That I don’t need to hear him whimper my name when he shudders beneath me. 

-

When it’s over, when we’re spent and breathless and the aching void is pushed aside, he sleeps. I sit by the bed and watch the lines of his face soften by degrees. In the morning he’ll stare at himself in the mirror and hate what he sees, what he did, how weak he was. He’ll turn the same hard eyes on me, the same accusations tossed across the room that he tossed at himself and I’ll pretend it doesn’t matter. It won’t matter, because nothing is supposed to matter at all anymore. This won’t even matter by the time the sun comes up. Just another meaningless conquest in the life of Captain Jack Harkness, an invisible mark carved into a headboard, another tick carved into my skin. Nothing.

I think about the box sitting on my desk just upstairs. I could spare him the regret. One magic little pill and it all disappears, the night reset like an etch-a-sketch drawing, every touch and kiss and moan erased. He could stare at the bruises and the scratches and rationalize them away.

But in the end, I can’t do it. My pride won’t let me. It wants him to look at my fingerprints on his hips, catch the scent of me on his skin, my taste in his mouth. Wants him to look at the bite on his collarbone and remember who put it there. My ego can’t take the possibility that I can be that easily forgotten.

Like she forgot me.

I crawl back into the bed instead and admire my handiwork in silence.


End file.
